


The Cradle Will Fall

by teaberryblue



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Action/Adventure, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, F/F, F/M, Found Family, Marvel 616/MCU Crossover, Minor Alexei/Natasha, Minor Medical Trauma, Minor Natasha/Yelena, POV Clint Barton, POV Laura Barton, POV Natasha Romanov, Pregnancy (healthy), Prequel, Violence, child trafficking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-04-30 16:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5171630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaberryblue/pseuds/teaberryblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Becoming the Black Widow came at a price-- a price the new Black Widow is unwilling to see others after her pay.  When she secretly sets a plan in motion to undermine the workings of the Red Room, Natasha makes a call to Special Agent Barton of the FBI for help...</p><p> </p><p>  <i>But the Agent Barton who shows up isn't the one she was expecting.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cradle Will Fall

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the Romanoff Big Bang 2015! 
> 
> The beautiful watercolor drawing of Natasha and Clint and the exploding building is by odge-gribble and you can see her [masterpost for it here](http://odge-gribble.tumblr.com/post/133129024872/candescence-october-2015-ink-and-watercolor-i-did).
> 
> [There is a story masterpost on tumblr here-- if you enjoy the story please share if if you have a moment!](http://teaberryblue.tumblr.com/post/133136023839/fic-the-cradle-will-fall)
> 
> Thanks to odge-gribble and greenjudy for their beta work!
> 
> For disclosure purposes for people with triggers/squicks, the pregnancy in this story is a healthy one and not associated with the medical trauma.

"How old are you?"

The man leered at her as he asked the question, leered even as she was certain he was trying to be friendly, fake smile plastered on his mouth. He smelled of expensive cologne and even more expensive whiskey.

She widened her eyes, tilted her head to the side. "N-no English," she said, stammering slightly, her voice quavering, her fear palpable.

Now his smile widened, baring his teeth like a wolf. 

The other man, the one who sweat so profusely that he carried two handkerchiefs, shook his head. "She knows about three words of English. Her papers say she's sixteen."

"Oh," said Cologne and Whiskey, breathlessly. "Oh, they're going to love you in L.A."

She sat, still silent, rubbing her wrists where they were bound. Handkerchiefs tapped out a message on his phone. He stared at the screen until it lit up, yellow-green. "We're go," he said. "They want these four; I've got the location."

Twenty seconds later, Cologne and Whiskey was dead, neck snapped, and Handkerchiefs was standing up against the wall, his pants soaked with his own urine, whimpering like an injured animal.

"I haven't touched you," Natasha said, in clear, unbroken English. She scrolled down the text messages on the phone, read the last query: could they be there in 48 hours? 

"Confirmed," she typed. 

She held Whiskey and Cologne's gun up to Handkerchiefs' head. "The sale proceeds as planned," she murmured. "You're taking your cargo to LA. We'll even throw in a few more girls for good measure; does your boss like them young?"

*****

Natasha sat with the littlest girl in her lap in the back of the truck.

"I'll have a family?" Magda asked. They were speaking in Russian; the little girl had some English, but she wasn’t yet fluent, not yet comfortable. 

Natasha combed her fingers through Magda's hair: soft, blonde, loosely curled. "You will. You might have to wait a little while, but you're going to good people. They'll take care of you there."

"I won't have to--"

She felt Magda's shoulders stiffen. 

"No," Natasha said. "You won't have to kill anyone, ever again." 

She did Magda's hair up in braids, two tight plaits down the back of her head. 

When the truck stopped, all the girls rebound their wrists behind their backs. Handkerchiefs opened the back, and the girls filed out, one by one, Natasha at the rear, watching over them all with a cautious eye. They didn’t need to be watched, not really; she knew that. But she did, still.

They were in an alley-- it was narrow, filthy, smelled of rotting vegetables. The truck blocked their exit; ahead was a concrete wall. 

Natasha smiled to herself. 

“Just don’t be afraid,” she murmured. She’d determined when they began this journey that Handkerchiefs was one of those Americans who thought everyone else should speak his language when he couldn’t manage more than a sentence in any of theirs. 

Handkerchiefs put a hand to her arm, roughly, holding her back from the rest of the girls. “What’s your game, here?” he asked. “Why are you--you know exactly what this is; what do you want? Money?” 

She leveled an even look at him. “I want you to make the call.” 

Handkerchiefs made the call. Natasha held out her hand, wiggled her fingers, gesturing for the phone. 

“Fuck me,” Handkerchiefs said, swallowing, as he handed it over. “I’m not gonna fuckin’ last the night once the boss finds--”

“The boss won’t find anything out,” Natasha assured him. She gripped the phone in her hand, tightly, the plastic warming to her touch. 

Handkerchiefs just stood there, his lower lip quivering. 

“I’m giving you a gun,” she told him. “So nothing looks amiss.” 

She held out a handgun. 

“Is it--” Handkerchiefs began. 

“I don’t trust you that much,” Natasha said with a smile. “It’s not loaded. It’s just for show.” 

His hands trembled as he took the gun. He pointed it at her. 

She crooked her finger to the girls, had them line up. “Look scared,” she instructed in Russian. “Big eyes. Slouch forward. Quivering lips.” 

A car drove up behind the truck, slowed to a halt. Natasha heard the doors open, the doors close. 

Four armed men walked toward the girls. 

“Seven?” the first one asked, tilting his shaven head to one side curiously. He had a tattoo on his scalp, of a red rose. “I thought we were getting four.” 

Handkerchiefs gulped, then shrugged, and plastered a nervous-looking grin on his face. “You got seven,” he answered. 

Natasha considered that if anyone was going to blow their cover, it was going to be Handkerchiefs. She should have paid him more, she thought. But then, that wouldn’t help with his complete inability to act. 

Tattoo stepped up close, sniffed one of the girls’ hair. “What’s wrong with ‘em?” 

“Wr--wrong with them?” Handkerchiefs asked. 

“You’re not looking for extra cash, are you?” Tattoo asked. “Because I’m only authorized to pay for four.” He clutched another girl’s chin in his hands, tipped her head from side to side. She whimpered balefully; her teeth began to chatter. Natasha watched approvingly, uncertain whether it was safe to speak in Russian in front of these new men. 

Tattoo stopped in front of Magda, and the little girl glared up at him through her eyelashes. 

“How old are you?” he asked, as he crouched down to look her in the eye.

Magda furrowed her brow, and shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she said, in Russian. 

Tattoo looked up, twisting himself away from Magda to at Handkerchiefs. “You understand that?” 

“You got me, pal,” Handkerchiefs answered, shrugging. 

Before Tattoo could turn back around, Magda jabbed her elbow into the base of his neck. 

It took the other men a moment to figure out what had just happened, how a tiny child was now straddling their fallen cohort and dislocating his shoulder as he screamed into the filthy pavement. 

A moment was all the girls needed.

When the men were all restrained, bloodied, and looking worse for wear, Natasha stepped up to Handkerchiefs. “Thank you,” she said. “And I’m sorry.”

“It-- uh--” He gulped. “Was no problem.”

“That was a preemptive apology,” she explained, before she knocked him out with the butt of her pistol. 

She took his wallet, injected his arm with a needle full of something that would nicely muddle his memory, removed the money she’d paid him, and stuffed it into her bra. She made sure the girls were fully armed, and then dialed a number she had stolen out of a file in Yekaterinberg. 

The phone rang twice before someone answered. 

“Barton,” said a male voice. 

“Agent Barton?” Natasha asked. "FBI?"

“Who is this?” asked the voice. It was a warm voice, tinged with caution, with a faint Midwestern American accent. “Is this the girl from last--” 

“I believe you’ve been looking for some men,” she answered. 

There was a long pause. “Yeah?” he asked. 

She assumed the call was being traced. “I’ll leave this phone at the location,” she informed him. “They’re all here. And there are six girls with them. Underage. Refugees. They’re going to need homes.” 

“Who--”

She hung up the phone and gave it to the oldest of the girls.

“You aren’t staying with us?” one of the girls asked.

“No, darling,” Natasha answered, shaking her head. “I can’t.” 

“Why not?” asked Magda. 

Natasha took the car key off the driver, and started away, toward the black SUV the men had arrived in. She clicked the tiny button inscribed with an open padlock, and the car beeped to signal that the door was open. 

“Because,” she said, turning back around one more time. “I need to go back for the rest.”

*****

"Six kids," Barney said, shaking his head. He nodded, as Laura indicated his coffee mug. She refilled it, and tried not to make a face as Barney loaded it with sugar.

"Any ID?" Clint asked. 

"Zilch," Barney lamented. "Same as the last time. Called in on some small-time mob guy's phone. By a woman. All the traffickers beaten bloody, tied up. They all swear up and down it was the little girls who did it. All but the seller; his memory's wiped to hell." 

"And the kids?" Laura asked, sitting back down at the table. "They must know."

"They all have the same story," Barney answered. "They were drugged, they don't remember a thing."

"And the sticker," Barney added. "They don't seem to be immigrants. Fluent English, American accents, could answer pretty much any question I lobbed at 'em. Current events, history...they know the President, Vice President, state capitals..."

Clint and Laura share a look. "Sound better-educated than most kids," Clint said.

"What about the woman?" asked Laura. "The one who keeps calling them in?"

"No way to trace her." Barney sighed, setting his cup on the table with some finality. He looked at his brother. "That's why I came to--"

"Oh, no," Clint said, shaking his head. He put his hands up, slid his chair back away from the table. "Fury would kill me."

"I'm not looking for access," Barney said. "I just want our agencies to work together on this."

"Yeah, well, the FBI hasn't exactly been forthcoming when SHIELD's asked them for help," Clint pointed out. “Whoever she is, she’s helping, isn’t she?” 

Barney gave Clint a pained look. “We don’t have a fucking clue where these kids are coming from, baby bro. We don’t have names; none of them are matching our missing persons reports...they’re just...kids, coming out of nowhere. It seems like it might actually be more...uh. Up SHIELD’s alley.” 

“You want me to take it to Fury, I will,” Clint offered. “But you know as well as I do the FBI closed him out of their database after September Eleven; you ask me to do this, you’re turning the case over to us.”

Barney hesitated, then pulled a disk out of his pocket. Reluctantly, he slid it across the table. “I know,” he said. “But I’m coming up empty. And it’s _kids_ , Clint.” 

Clint tapped his fingers against the disk, then looked at Laura. “I’ll take it to Fury,” he agreed. “They can’t have just popped out of the ether, Barn.” 

“Thanks,” Barney said. He glanced around the room, as if he wasn’t sure what to say next. “I owe you one.” 

“Nah,” Clint assured him. “It’s no problem.” He looked at Laura again. 

Laura raised both eyebrows, inquisitively, and cleared her throat. 

“What?” Barney asked.

“Yeah,” Clint agreed. “You can go ahead and tell him.” 

Barney’s brow furrowed; he looked between them with a confused expression. “Tell me what?” 

Laura grinned, and when she did, Clint coughed into his hand, then burst out laughing.

“Speaking of _kids_ ,” Laura started, clearing her throat. 

“Oh, god,” Barney said, his eyes locked on Laura’s still-flat belly. “What did you two do?”

*****

Natasha presented herself in Moscow a week and a half after she’d left, alone and underfed.

Alexei met her at the door, his face grave, and he held her by the shoulders, looking her over with concerned eyes. 

“What happened?” he asked. 

Natasha tried to look hollow, choked on the air, fell forward against him. “They took us,” she answered, as if there were anywhere worse in the world to be taken _to_. 

He led her inside; she let herself stumble over her feet until her dropped her into a chair in a debriefing room. She glanced up at the two-way mirror. 

“No one’s looking,” Alexei assured her. He dropped to his knee by her chair. 

“Where are the others?” asked a cold, caustic voice over the intercom. 

She gave Alexei a dry look. 

He shrugged. “I didn’t--” He glared at the mirror, then. “They said this room was unattended.” 

Natasha looked at the mirror, calmly-- more calmly than Alexei, her expression even. “I tried to get them back,” she said. “But I determined that my chances were better to return and regroup. We were too heavily watched; they were too heavily armed. I didn’t want to risk the lives of any of the girls.” 

“How did it happen?” the voice on the intercom asked. “This is...unprecedented. _Seven_ girls. And you the only one finished with her training.” 

Natasha gritted her teeth. “I will take whatever punishment is due,” she said. “It was Magda. They took the little one first, and used her as bait. We couldn’t get her back, and then they-- picked us off, one by one.” 

She looked down, shook her head at Alexei when he offered her a hand. “It was my fault; I take full responsibility,” she said. 

“It is not uncommon,” said the voice on the intercom. “For the girls assigned to watch the younger trainees to forget themselves. You are a shepherd, Romanova. You do not risk your flock for one missing lamb.” 

“I forgot myself,” Natasha said. 

“Thirteen girls,” said the voice. “Lost in a year. The year since _you_ took the mantle. Six was unprecedented--”

“You can't blame Romanova for the others!” Alexei said angrily. She had nothing to do with those assignments; she--”

“She's just more than doubled the count,” the voice said grimly.

Natasha reached for Alexei’s hand. “Let me get them back. Let me try.” 

There was a long pause. Alexei squeezed her hand, warmly, firmly, and she slid a glance in his direction; his shoulders were tense, more tense than hers. 

“What do you need?” 

Natasha took a breath. “Myself,” she said. “And one other agent.” 

Alexei looked up at the mirror. “Let me go,” he said. 

“You’re too attached,” said the voice over the intercom. “We can’t have--” 

“Romanova and I have run _countless_ missions,” Alexei argued. “More serious than--” 

“She’s right,” Natasha said, shaking her head. “Anyway, I can’t have you with me. They...need to see women. They need to think we’re vulnerable. Give me Belova.” 

“Belova hasn't even graduated yet,” Alexei objected. “She's not--”

“She’s about to,” Natasha said, and the thought sent a shiver down her spine. “Why not let her prove herself?”

*****

“Kids,” Fury said, as he looked over the file Clint had brought him, his feet up on the desk. “Your brother brought this to _you_? Isn’t this what the Bureau is for? Missing persons, that kind of crap?”

“Yeah, but get this,” Clint said. “There’s no record of any of these kids ever existing. They’re all girls, between nine and sixteen. No parents, no place of origin, they just...showed up.” 

Clint reached for the file. “And then there’s the DNA tests.” 

He turned to the page, the printout with old dot matrix type in blocky letters, reporting the anomaly. “All of them. Like this.” 

Fury went quiet. “I’ve seen this before.” 

“I know,” Clint answered. “I mean, I’m not a scientist, or anything, but that-- that’s the same thing we saw in the file for the--”

“Winter Soldier,” Fury agreed, his tone going clipped. 

“Aw, we’re like an old married couple,” Clint said cheerfully. “You finishing my sentences.” 

Fury raised the eyebrow above his good eye, and then snorted. “Here I was, I thought you were getting soft, with the kid on the way. Good work, Barton.” 

He tapped the file. 

“Sir?” Clint asked, brow furrowing. 

“What is it?” 

“How--” He twitched, suddenly uneasy. “How did you know about the kid?”

*****

There was something about Yelena, the curve of her jaw, the slope of her nose, maybe the glint in her eyes, something that, if Natasha squinted enough, she could see herself in, pretend they were really sisters, after all.

They _were_ sisters, for this trip. Yelena had, in her usual sly way, eyes twinkling, suggested they pose as lovers. She’d given Natasha that crooked smile of hers, pressed a hand to Natasha’s knee. 

“Then no one will question it when I do this,” she pointed out, the dimple in her chin growing deeper as she crossed her ankles and slid her fingers up Natasha’s thigh. 

“That’s exactly why we’re being sisters,” Natasha informed her stiffly. 

Yelena had rolled her eyes, shook her head, and dropped her hand. “Killjoy.” 

Natasha had sat back in her seat, tugged the insubstantial blanket over her, and let the vibrations of the plane engines lull her to sleep. 

Yelena coaxed her awake when they reached New York, the plane emptying as businesspeople in their suits and tourists with their wheeled luggage shuffled past them. 

They sat and waited as the others filed off the plane, waited until they wouldn’t have to stand in line behind the other passengers, and took their shared luggage-- a single, nondescript, black bag-- out of the overhead storage compartment. 

American passports in hand, they flew through customs with a smile and a little friendly banter with the customs agent, who asked if they were twins. They smiled between each other and assured him that Natasha was the older by a year. 

They had nine hours until their flight to Los Angeles, to the last place Natasha had seen the other girls. Natasha had started to wheel their bag toward the waiting area, passing by a man who had been on their flight, reporting a lost cellphone. He had a distressed look on his face, he was tapping nervously at the counter, and Natasha felt sorry for him for a moment. 

Yelena grabbed Natasha’s arm. 

“What are you doing?” Yelena asked.

“Trying to find a place to sleep,” Natasha said. “There; there’s a bank of seats no one’s taken.”

A slow smile spread across Yelena’s mouth. “We don’t have to sleep here,” she said, with a toss of her golden curls. “Just think,” she said. “ _American hotels_. _American showers_.”

Yelena had a point. 

They checked into a serviceable yet unassuming hotel with an airport shuttle route, and arranged for their wakeup call. Natasha closed her eyes with satisfaction as she sat down on the fluffy duvet that covered the bed, sinking down into the layers of down and blankets and springy mattress. 

“I’m taking a shower,” Yelena said. “Ten hours on an airplane, all those _people_...” 

Natasha waited until she heard the steady stream of water pounding against ceramic, and she pulled out the cellphone she’d stolen from the man on their flight. She dialed the same number she had dialed last time. 

“Barton,” said the voice that answered. 

“I almost feel like we’re friends now,” Natasha said. 

The other end of the line went silent for a moment. “Miss?” asked Barton.

“How are the girls? Are they safe?” she asked. “Did you find them families? I promised them they’d get families.” 

“They’re safe,” said Barton. 

“Good,” said Natasha. “I’m going to have one more for you. I might not be able to call again for a while.” 

She hung up, stepped into the hall, took the phone and dropped it down a laundry chute. 

She came back with a can of Coke and a cup of ice. Yelena was just stepping out of the bathroom, naked, her skin pink and clean, her hair tied up in a white hotel towel. 

“I thought you were going to join me,” she said, pouting. 

“This isn’t that kind of mission,” Natasha answered, though she felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck. She flipped the aluminum pop top, poured the Coke into the little plastic cup. About a third of it fit, with the ice, and the bubbles popped crisply.  
She held it out to Yelena, who sipped it, tentatively, from the cup, and she tugged the towel from her head so her hair fell around her face in damp ringlets. 

“Sweet,” she observed. 

“Coca-Cola,” Natasha answered. 

Yelena gave her a wistful look. “ _Someday_ ,” she said, with a sigh. “Someday _soon_ I’ll get to do what you do.” She took another sip of the Coke, then handed it back. 

Natasha gulped down the remainder. “Maybe sooner than you think,” she said, with an encouraging smile. 

But Yelena’s expression went grim. “Don’t _say_ that, Tasha,” she admonished. “There’s only one way to get a new Black Widow.” 

There were technically two ways, but one of them wasn’t something they spoke of. Everyone knew what happened if you tried to defect. And anyway, Natasha was smart enough to know that if she reminded Yelena of that now, Yelena would be able to leap to the correct conclusion. 

Natasha flashed her a smile. “I’m getting up there in years,” she joked. “Maybe they’ll retire me.” 

“Ripe old age of twenty-three,” Yelena teased. 

They slept in each other’s arms, Yelena naked and luxuriating at the strange feel of the bedlinens, Natasha in a shirt and underwear--but far too aware of Yelena’s skin against her own, where they touched.

*****

“Another call?” Fury asked, when Clint came to report.

“Airport motel near JFK,” Clint replied. “They could be anywhere by now.” 

“They?” Fury asked. “There’s more than one of them?” 

“Barney’s recording says she has another one,” Clint said. “I assume she means another kid.” He played back the recording. 

“Cute,” Fury said, when it ended. He looked up at Clint, his expression cautious, stony. “Are you sure you want to take this?” he asked. 

“You sound like you expect it to go badly,” Clint observed. 

“Tell you the truth,” Fury admitted, “I don’t know what to expect. I _can_ tell you I recognize that voice.” 

“Yeah?” Clint raised an eyebrow. He tapped at his hearing aid. “Got it turned up to eleven, sir, and I don’t think I do.” 

“Sao Paulo,” Fury answered simply. 

Clint went still; his feet squaring against the floor. “You think it’s her?” 

“I think we’ve got a roomful of tiny baby Winter Soldier girls somehow finding their way into FBI custody,” Fury said. “I’d bet my other eye those kids are all trained killers.” 

“So…” Clint furrowed his brow. “So what do you think she’s _doing_ with them?” 

“Who knows?” Fury asked. “Trying to buy our trust? Planting sleeper agents? Setting some kind of plan in motion?” 

“She--” Clint thought back to the recording. “She sounded worried about them. Like she--” 

“That’s what she does, Barton,” Fury said, in a sober tone. He kicked his boots up onto his desk, crossed his arms over his chest. “She’s _very good_ at sounding like she has feelings.” 

Fury scratched at his chin for a moment. “You think you know what her next move is?” he asked. “You want to follow her when she calls again?”

“If she calls again,” Clint corrected.

“Oh,” Fury replied, with a certainty that made Clint shudder. “She’ll call.”

*****

“Do you even think we’ll be able to find them?” Yelena asked, poking at her airplane dinner with her plastic fork. She grimaced, then put the fork down and leaned back in her seat. “This is worse than the food back home,” she observed. “I thought American food was supposed to be salty and buttery and covered in cheese.”

“And bacon,” Natasha said. “We’ll go to In n’ Out when we get off the plane; I promise.” 

“In n’ Out,” Yelena echoed. She gave Natasha a long look, and then nodded. “We can order off the secret menu.” 

“Animal fries,” Natasha agreed. She flagged down the flight attendant, asked for two more Cokes. 

“They’ll think we’re locals,” Yelena said. She straightened up in her seat, handing over the remains of her tray with a polite nod. 

When the pilot announced that they were about to begin landing procedures, Natasha put up her seat tray and took a deep breath. 

“There’s been a change of plans,” she said slowly, in Russian, in a low whisper. 

“What?” Yelena asked. “We have new instructions?” 

Natasha shook her head. “No,” she replied. “No. We’re ignoring our instructions.” 

“But--” Yelena looked at her with wary eyes and parted lips. “What about the trainees?” 

“They’re safe,” Natasha said. “They aren’t going back. And neither are you.” 

Yelena blinked. “What-- Tasha, are you _mad_?” 

Natasha shook her head. “When you graduate, they-- they’ll mutilate you, and then when...If...something happens to me, you’re next,” she said. “You’ll be the Black Widow. So I want you to be safe, before I--” 

“Tasha,” Yelena said softly. “Tasha, what have you done?” 

Natasha clutched her hands to waist. “I can’t let them do it anymore. What they’ve done to us, what they’ll do to you, to the rest of them-- it can’t go on.” 

“But it’s _necessary_ ,” Yelena breathed. “It’s worth it; it’s all worth it, for the protection of the--”

“No,” Natasha answered. “It isn’t.” 

She pulled out the envelope she’d stashed away so carefully, the one with new papers for Yelena, a new identity, the address to the apartment she’d arranged, and held it out. “I’m sending you away. I’ve been planning this for a long time It’s-- you’ll be safe.”

Yelena’s fists curled into balls, she glared up at Natasha now. “Were you going to ask me for my opinion?” 

Natasha felt sick, heavy, like there was a stone filling her stomach. “I couldn’t risk it,” she said simply, but her hand trembled when she laid it on the armrest. “I need to go back for the others.” 

Yelena let out a sharp, audible breath. “All of them?” 

“As many as I can,” Natasha answered. 

“Are you going to--” Yelena was silent for a long moment, and she peered at Natasha curiously, her eyes dropping from Natasha’s face, scanning down the lines of her body. “The boys, too?” 

Natasha winced, visibly, her jaw hard, and she wrapped her arms around herself. “If I can get to them.” 

She watched Yelena purse her lips, tightly, like she’d bitten into something sour. 

“I’ll come back to you,” she promised, reaching for Yelena’s hand. “When it’s done, I’ll come back, and we can be…” She trailed off, not sure what to promise, never entirely sure what Yelena wanted her to be.

Yelena snatched her hand away. “You’re...you shouldn’t be doing this, Tasha,” she said. “This is personal. You’re--” 

“I have to,” Natasha answered stubbornly. “You don’t have to be part of it. But you’re not safe back there, not once I start.” 

“You…” Yelena shook her head. “This wasn’t my decision.” 

Natasha tapped at her elbows, giving her head a little shake. “I’m sorry,” she said, after a moment. “I wanted to tell you.”

Yelena sighed, and then nodded. “Your heart was in the right place. What’s done is done. We all keep secrets,” she assured her quietly.

They were silent for the remainder of the flight. Yelena handed the suitcase over to Natasha as they deplaned, and the two of them walked, matching each other’s pace step for step, their gaits nearly identical, through the busy airport. 

Natasha started for the taxi rank, when Yelena gripped her shirtsleeve, tugging at the fabric. Natasha turned, and caught sight of the familiar figure waiting, leaning up against a black, shiny limousine. 

“Alex--” she began, startled. 

“There’s been a change of plans,” Yelena informed her. 

Natasha felt something jab her in the waist, and her vision began to swim.

*****

"I got my leave approved," Clint's voice crowed from the phone. "They're giving me six months, all-paid, full benefits, starting two weeks before your due date."

Laura shrieked with glee, reflexively, and nearly dropped the phone. "Really?" She asked. "Who did you have to bribe?" 

"Nobody," Clint said. "Come on, La, I bet they're thrilled for an excuse to get rid of me. Fury says I can stack some accrued sick leave on top of that, or take a couple weeks without pay, if I want to make it a round six months with the baby."

“Are we going to kill each other?” Laura asked. “Being alone in the house together with _that much time_?” 

Clint laughed. “Nah,” he said. “Anyway, I was thinking I can do some work around the house. Set up the baby’s room, finally fix up the fence around the chicken coop so we can, you know…” 

“Get chickens?” Laura asked. “Chickens and a baby all at once, Clint; you’re a very ambitious man.” 

“I figure if I’m going to be outnumbered by women, I might as well make it a _lot_ of women,” he said cheerfully. “We could get a beehive, too. That would be, like, forty thousand women.” 

“No bees,” Laura answered. “All we need is for the baby to be allergic.” 

“But chickens?” Clint asked hopefully. 

“Yes,” she said. “You can get chickens. As long as I get omelettes every morning.” 

“Huevos rancheros?” Clint offered. 

“Sure,” Laura agreed. “We can get those chickens that lay the colored eggs.”

“Araucanas,” Clint supplied. “I’ve been doing research.” 

“Are you looking at photos of chickens when you should be working?” Laura teased. 

“N-- yes. Only a little,” Clint assured her. “Trail went dead on Barney’s lead, so I’m back to boring stuff. There’s this new terrorist organization in Afghanistan, the Five Golden Rings, nah, like, Ten Rings or something? No one knows where they’re getting their money, but we've got a guess there's an American connection.”

“I’m so sorry you’re on boring terrorist detail,” Laura said apologetically. “When are you home?”

“The nineteenth,” he answered. “How’s the little beastie?” 

“The little beastie is a nice, healthy, well-behaved parasite,” Laura answered. “I’ve stopped puking all the time, so there’s that.” 

“Good beastie,” said Clint. “Put her on?” 

Laura held the phone to her belly, where she couldn’t hear what her husband was saying, but felt the vibrations of the soundwaves tickling against her skin.

*****

Natasha twitched as she came to, air filling her lungs with a gasp.

“She’s awake,” said a male voice. Alexei. She growled through her teeth. 

She was restrained, tied to a gurney that was being wheeled down a long, narrow hall. It was dimly lit, the bare incandescent bulbs that dotted the ceiling at intervals giving off a weak, golden light. 

Her wrists were tied down, so were her ankles, her chest, her knees. 

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, clearly and calmly. 

Alexei came into view. “Where are the kids, Tasha?” 

“I have no idea,” Natasha answered. “Where am _I_?” 

“They think you’re unstable,” Alexei explained. “They need to evaluate you.” 

“What did you tell them?” she asked. The gurney wheels clicked over the cracks in the floor; it jostled her so her shoulders rocked against the hard metal. 

“I told them I didn’t know,” Alexei answered. “But I didn’t think you were.” 

The women who pushed her were near-featureless-- their faces hidden behind white surgical masks, their hair tied up under plastic caps. She might have mistaken them for nurses if they weren’t dressed in black, armed with handguns. 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Natasha said bitterly. 

“It’s not a vote of confidence,” Alexei answered. “It means you made a conscious decision to do something terribly destructive. There’s no cure for that.” 

He was quiet, then, the only sounds the footsteps of the floor, the squeaking and gliding of the wheels. 

“Yelena told me what you were doing,” he said. There was grief in his voice, and their eyes locked as he walked alongside her. “I don’t understand.” 

Natasha swallowed, frowned back up at him. “I don’t know what Yelena said I was doing,” she said. “What did Yelena tell you I was doing?” 

“Kidnapping her,” Alexei answered. “She said you kidnapped the others, too.” 

“That’s a lie,” Natasha said simply. "Where are they taking me?"

"Observation," Alexei answered.

Natasha felt cold. "Does observation involve poisonous gas? An IV drip that'll kill me slowly?" 

“I don't know.” Alexei's expression tensed; his blue eyes lost focus, went distant. "Why do you think I insisted on staying with you?"

Natasha's brain began to process at light speed. Her face went carefully blank, for just a moment, as she let her body feel despair. She called up every memory she had, of sadness, of loss-- and tears began to well up in her eyes. 

"Oh, _Tasha_ ," Alexei said, softly, and he moved to take her hand.

His hand was large, warm, rough: thick fingers and a broad, flat palm. 

She sniffled, squeezed her eyes shut, the tears dripping down the sides of her face, into her hair. She made a little choked sound: small, pathetic, fearful.

"Stop," he murmured to the women rolling the gurney. Just for a moment, please."

They slowed their walk, and he leaned down, kissing the tears out of her eyes. Her chest twisted in knots. 

"I love you," she told him softly. "I don't say it enough, but I do."

He leaned down to kiss her, his mouth salty and sweet. "I know it," he assured her, cradling her head with one hand. "But I wish you wouldn't only say it when you're frightened."

She hesitated, looked away. "We could..."

Then she sighed, and trailed off, shaking her head.

"Marry me," Alexei supplied, abruptly, and he caught at her hair. "I don't know why I didn't think of it before."

"What?" Natasha asked, her gaze jumping back to him with wide-eyed surprise. She didn't mention that she'd thought of it three minutes ago. "Alexei, we can't; they'd never--"

"If you were-- if we were...legally...I could protect you," he offered. "I know it's not much, but...if you agreed to it, they'd see it as...an affirmation."

"You know the law only exists for us when they want it to," Natasha said miserably. "We don't get that, Alexei, we don't get a wedding or a home or-- we can't belong to each other; we already belong to something else."

"They're making Yelena the Widow," Alexei said. 

Natasha tried not to feel cold, tried not to feel the loss and pain that came with his words. She pursed her lips. "It's what she wanted."

"I'm sorry," said Alexei. "But it also means...maybe they'll give you a little freedom, now."

"And maybe they'll kill me," Natasha countered. She wriggled her wrists in circles, but her lip as she looked up at him. "You know I want to," she said softly. 

"Then say you will," Alexei urged, stroking at her cheek.

"It won't mean anything," she replied bitterly. “Not when they can make me take it back.”

"It will mean something to me." 

He was so earnest, so solid in the way he stood beside her, looked down at her like a guardian, that she almost felt badly for deceiving him. 

She nodded, faintly, and shut her eyes. “If they’ll let us,” she said, finally. “If they’ll let us, of course I will.” 

He took her hand up, again, squeezing it firmly. She knew it was meant to comfort her, but it still felt cold. He turned to the women who were accompanying them. 

“Sorry to keep you, ladies,” he said. “We can keep going.” 

He seemed so certain, Natasha thought, that he was getting what he wanted, that she was almost convinced that he was.

*****

The call woke them both up. Laura wasn’t sure what time of night it was, only that it was dark, and silent: the only sound outside was the wind, drowning out the sound of birds or insects.

It wasn’t the first time. It had happened too many times before for it to be a surprise, just dull, painful routine. She sat up blearily as Clint listened to whatever the voice on the other side of the telephone connection was telling him. 

Clint sat all the way up, slung his legs over the side of the bed. “No,” he said, and he rubbed at his forehead. “No, it can’t be; that doesn’t fit the profile.” 

Laura could hear the tension in his voice, and she crawled over to him on her knees, sat down beside him, ran her thumb over his spine soothingly. He nodded, then grunted into the phone.

“I still don’t think it’s her,” he said. “I know what you think you saw, but--” 

“No,” he said, a touch of irritation creeping into his voice. 

“Yes. Yeah, I can suit up.” Clint gave Laura a pained look, mouthed his apology in her direction. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed, tightly. 

Clint listened for a little longer, then nodded into the phone. "Understood," he said. "Over and out."

He swore as he hung up the phone. 

"It's the girl, isn't it?" Laura asked. "The one who was making those phone calls?"

"Yeah," Clint answered. He rubbed at his face, groaned, shook himself awake. "I'm sorry, La. I was going to make you brunch." 

She kissed the back of his neck. "I knew what I was getting into when I married you," she assured him.

"Yeah," Clint agreed. "But that doesn't mean it doesn't suck."

"Well, I have chickens to keep me company now," Laura pointed out cheerfully. She put her arms around him, lay her cheek against his back, comfortably. 

"Bawk, bawk," Clint said. He reached behind himself, fumbling for her hand.

"Look at me, surrounded by birds."

"You knew what you were getting into when you married me," Clint retorted.

He got up from the bed, rummaged for his tactical gear. "They said she...La, this woman, she's deadly dangerous. Legendary, even. It’s-- a legacy, kind of; there are rumors she’s been around for decades, but that’s not... But she suddenly started handing Barney these kids, and I don't know. I don't know why. It's like she's...I dunno, trying to make up for what she's done. But today...there's a report...she's back to killing; it's bloody stuff."

“Which is why they’re calling you in,” Laura observed. 

“Yeah,” Clint answered, as he fastened his pants. “But something about it doesn’t add up. And you know what they say about shooting first and asking questions.” 

"You're soft-hearted," Laura said fondly. "You used to cry every time I had to put a dog down; I don't know how you do what you do, sometimes."

"I’m protecting people,” Clint answered. He shot her a meek smile. “Keeping you safe. And the chickens.” 

“Well, someone has to look after the chickens,” Laura agreed. 

They took their time saying goodbye; their kisses were slow and solemn, and Clint said goodbye to the baby last of all, kneeling down to press his cheek to Laura’s belly. He pressed a kiss to her navel. “I’ll be back soon, chickadee,” he cooed. 

“Oh, don’t go influencing the _baby_ with your avian ways,” Laura teased. 

Clint raised an eyebrow and kissed her belly again. “Chickadee, sparrow, duckling, swan,” he murmured, pressing his lips to the fabric of Laura’s nightshirt. “I’ll be home soon.”

*****

Yelena stood at the door, tall and elegant in her pink dress, her hair pinned up in soft, golden curls.

“Twenty minutes,” she said to Natasha. 

Natasha looked at herself in the mirror, at her carefully waved hair, at the makeup expertly applied to her face, at the delicate beading down the front of her dress. 

“I’ll be ready,” Natasha assured her with a nod. She reached for the little white flower-crown that sat on the table in front of her, picked up a few hairpins and lodged them between her teeth. 

“Do you need help?” Yelena asked. 

Natasha smiled, and shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m almost done. You go tell them.” 

“You’re planning something.” Yelena leaned back against the door. 

“I’m _planning_ on getting married,” Natasha answered. “And getting to live in a nice little apartment and put my guns away.” 

“I suppose you’re planning on having lots of babies,” Yelena scoffed. “And playing with their cute tootsie-wootsies.” 

Natasha went still, her shoulders stiff and straight. “That’s not funny,” she said, and swallowed, looking down at the fine wood grain of the table, the veneer long worn away. 

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “Neither was dealing with the fallout of your...lapse of judgment.” 

Natasha turned back toward the younger woman, gave her a placating look. “I will balance my ledger. I promise. In due time.” 

“See to it you keep that promise,” Yelena said bitterly. She tapped at the doorframe, looking grim for a moment. Natasha thought she saw Yelena glance at the open window for a moment before she turned to leave. “Twenty minutes, I said. I’ll be back.” 

Natasha waited until Yelena shut the door behind her. She pinned the crown into her hair, hiked up her skirt, and double-checked her thigh holsters. Then she climbed out the window. 

The window opened onto a flat rooftop that was an easy hop away, even in heavy skirts. 

The younger girls-- the ones who were old enough to be trained, old enough to leave the nursery in the hospital wing, but not old enough to be fully indoctrinated-- were kept in a squat, grey cinderblock building: three stories high, rectangular and faceless, like a tomb. There was a small courtyard in the center of the building, to the north of the main space, another at the front to the south, with a sign in Brutalist lettering that boasted a single word: “Orphanage.” She entered through the rooftop: two minutes. Down the stairs: one minute more. 

The children all looked up from where there were seated at a long table, each one with an ankle shackled to the floor by continuous steel rods that ran the length of the benches on either side. She counted them carefully-- fourteen girls, all present and accounted for.

“Hello, children,” she said. 

“You’re getting married!” said one of the older girls. 

Natasha put a smile on her face. “I am,” she said. She took out a pistol, shot a single shot through each of the steel rods. 

The children were so well-trained than none of them blinked. 

“There is a test today, children,” she announced. “You will need to leave the building.” 

Quietly, with minimal sound, the girls all released themselves from the bar, walking in two single-file lines. 

Natasha took out another pistol. She handed the guns to the oldest girls, then started walking, briskly, to the courtyard. She pulled up the bricks in one corner, the ones where she’d been stashing weapons, in secret, for months, and distributed those as best she could. Seven minutes.

The children followed, without question, used to drills with no explanation, used to orders that defied reason, used to surprise tests of their obedience, of their flexibility, of their skill under pressure. 

Natasha squatted down and unfastened the lid of the drainpipe in the center of the courtyard. “You will go north,” she said. She took her watch, gave it to another child. “When you’ve walked for fifteen minutes, you will see an opening ahead. You will climb out. There will be a house to your left. One of you-- only one of you-- go to the house and ask to use the phone. You will give them this phone number.” 

She pulled slips of paper-- as many as there were girls-- out of the beaded decolletage of her gown. “You will reach a man named Agent Barton. Tell him you are waiting for him, and to trace the location of your call. Stay on the line until he’s completed his trace.” 

The girls took the papers carefully, reverently, some reading the number aloud, some mouthing it, some staring unblinking, each memorizing it in their own way. Without instruction, to a child, they all put the papers in their mouths when they were done, and swallowed. 

“Someone will come for you,” Natasha said. She showed them an image, three black letters on a white field. “They will show you this symbol. Go with them and follow their instructions.” 

“If anyone tries to stop you,” Natasha said. “Shoot. Remember. It is a test. To pass the test, you must shoot anyone who stands in your way. Even if they are one of ours.” 

Nine minutes. Nine minutes, and now the girls disappeared into the drainpipe, the one she had so carefully scouted, the one she’d bricked off the system that fed into it to prevent flooding.

She waited and watched. Five minutes later, the last child lowered her head down below the surface of the courtyard, and Natasha fixed the drain back on. She walked to the front door of the building, raised her skirts as far as she could, and kicked the doors out. She took her shoes off, kicked up the gravel in the front courtyard, made it look as if there had been a scuffle, made it look as if maybe two dozen tiny feet had left that way. No one would see the holes in her stockings until after the wedding. 

Fifteen minutes. She had five minutes to get back.

She planted charges in the corners of the main room on the first floor. 

Climbing up the stairs, she thought she heard something in one of the bedrooms. 

She glanced over her shoulder. 

She _definitely_ heard something in one of the bedrooms. 

Sixteen minutes. She had given her guns to the children; she took off a shoe again, arming herself with it like a bludgeon, and peered inside.

The child sitting on the bed whimpered. 

Natasha dropped her shoe. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked the little boy. He was cuffed to the bed, but it was easy enough to slip a cuff, especially for a child so small. “You’re not supposed to be here; you should be in the nursery.” 

“Mama?” he asked, looking up at her through a messy fringe of black hair, and she winced, a lump forming in her gut. 

“I bet you say that to all the ladies,” she replied. 

She hefted the child up, propping him on her hip, trying not to look at his face, at his blue eyes or the way his upper lip curled. 

Seventeen minutes. 

“You’re compromising the mission, you know,” she said to the little boy.

She took off both of her shoes again, and sprinted down the stairs, out the front of the orphanage, wedding dress catching the wind and flying behind her, no matter how much of it she gathered up. 

The streets were different today. There were more cars-- not so many that anyone might think much of it at first, but, dotting the street, here and there, more cars, and too many of them with tinted windows. 

Not stopping to catch her breath, she weighed her options, and barreled into the church. 

Eighteen minutes.

She only stopped when she reached the altar, a single elderly priest lighting prayer candles. He turned at the sound of her, crumpling on the floor. 

The priest squinted, tilted his head at her. “There aren’t any weddings today,” he said, with a confused expression, but his tone was kind.

She sat the little boy down on the steps to the altar. “Please,” she said, sucking in a deep breath. “I’m in trouble. Take my son? I will return for him. Don’t-- don’t let anyone else have him.” 

The priest stared. 

The little boy looked up at the priest and smiled. “Dada?” he inquired. 

Nineteen minutes.

Natasha didn’t wait for a response. It would have to do. She rose to her feet and ran back across the square. 

She reached the school at twenty minutes, on the dot. She wondered if Yelena would keep her promise, if she would come back in exactly twenty minutes. If she was detained at all, Natasha would be able to carry out her plan; if she had lied, if she had come back sooner...they might not yet have deduced where Natasha could be, but they would find her soon enough. 

She elbowed in the glass door to the school office, picked up the phone, cut the wires that would record the call, and dialed out. 

The phone rang, too many times for her liking. The children wouldn’t have reached their destination yet; there was still time. 

“This is Agent Barton,” answered Agent Barton. 

“I am sending you fourteen girls,” Natasha said. “They know only to go with your agents. But I need assistance at my current location.” 

She was met with silence. 

“I know you’re already on the ground, Agent,” Natasha said. “I saw your men.” 

“Stay on the line,” he said, finally. 

“I have to go,” Natasha said. “But I can leave the phone off the hook.” 

She erased the number from the phone’s log. 

Twenty-three minutes. 

She shut her eyes. Three minutes too long, ten seconds to shut her eyes wouldn’t hurt.

She checked every bedroom on her way back upstairs, but the place was vacant.

Twenty-six minutes. 

She climbed out onto the roof of the school, and saw Yelena, still in her pink bridesmaid’s gown, staring across the rooftops at her. 

Yelena touched her ear-- she was wearing a headset, no doubt, and mouthed something, too far away for Natasha to make it out. 

Natasha flattened herself against the rooftop. She slid on her belly-- thoroughly wrecking the beadwork on her gown-- toward a spot where the masonry was crumbling, arming herself with a chunk of cinderblock. 

She peered over the edge of the building-- Yelena was making her was forward across the adjacent rooftop, a gun in her hands. 

“Where are the girls?! Yelena shouted.

Natasha stayed down. “They’re safe!” she answered. 

“Send them out!” Yelena cried back.

“I have demands!” Natasha answered, and she found the detonator hidden in her dress, holding it up high above her head. They didn’t know. They didn’t know the children were gone. As long as they didn’t know, she still had power. 

“Screw your demands!” Yelena shouted back. She leapt across rooftops like they were nothing, landing lightly on her toes. 

Natasha ripped a length off her dress and twisted it between her hands, ready to use it as a garrotte. 

Yelena didn’t shoot. Instead, she used the butt of her gun as a bludgeon, bringing it down at Natasha’s head. 

“Well,” said Natasha, as she caught Yelena’s arm with the strip of satin, twisting the fabric around and bringing it down. “Thank you for not trying to kill me?” 

“You’re unstable,” Yelena hissed, and she kicked this time. Natasha dove down, out of the way. “I don’t want to hurt you; you need _help_ ; you need--”

It was easier than Natasha had expected to knock Yelena squarely off her feet. She ripped another strip from her skirt as she straddled the younger woman, pinning her hands to the ground, above her head. 

Yelena, her lip swollen from an elbow to the face, smiled up at her, her eyes a little dazed and glassy. “It’s not fair,” she said, her voice taking on a sleepy tone. “It’s not fair that you’re so--” 

Something struck the back of Natasha’s head. 

She blinked awake, her head still pounding, her hands bound in rope. 

“You’re hurting her,” scolded a man’s voice-- Alexei. Natasha winced. 

“You’re _defending her_ ,” snapped Yelena. “Are you an idiot?” 

“Tasha?” Alexei asked, leaning into her field of vision, still blurred around the edges. “Natasha, can we move you?” 

She shut her eyes, then nodded. 

They dragged her to her feet, roughly. 

“You’re going to stand in front of the tribunal for this,” Yelena said coldly. “Where are the girls?”

“Gone,” Natasha said, matter of fact. She let them walk her, slowly, to the edge of the building. She looked out, down at the streets, noting the positions of the cars, those strange cars that had only showed up that morning, the number that were now without drivers. 

She thought she saw movement in the front courtyard. 

Yelena slapped her across the face. “ _Where are they_?” 

Natasha shut her mouth, pursed her lips, and glared back at Yelena, her cheek stinging. 

Alexei did nothing, but she could see the way his hands shook. She didn’t know whether it was out of anger or fear-- or something else entirely. They flanked her as they walked to the edge of the rooftop. 

“We _will_ find them,” Yelena said. “With or without your help. So you may as well help, because it’s going to make things much easier for you.” 

Yelena gave her a long look. “There’s nowhere for you to go.” 

Natasha noded, slowly, biting on her lip. “I understand,” she said to Yelena. 

She wriggled her ankle in her shoe, and looked to Alexei. “I’m sorry,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek.

Then she jumped.

She heard Alexei scream her name. 

White satin billowed over Natasha’s head as she fell; the air rushing up beneath her, cold, stinging. She struggled to free her hands, feeling the scrape of the rope as it abraded her wrists. She kicked up, kicked off the heeled shoes she was wearing, tried to catch at the side of the building with her toes.

The brick tore up her silk stockings, ripped at her callused feet, but the ball of her foot struck once, hard, and she pushed, propelled herself upright and over, twisted in the air until her hands-- still bound-- were close to the brick, until she could catch her fingertips at the gaps in the mortar. 

Her French tips grated against the bricks, left rough and ragged at the edges, until her hands smacked, flat, against the window ledge. She could feel the bones in her fingers-- one, two, three snapping, but it was enough, and she heaved an elbow up onto the ledge, then the second elbow, and then she observed the glass in the window: it was old, paned glass, the kind you didn’t see anymore, and she let out a breath in relief.

Then she smashed her head into the window.

*****

When the doorbell rang at midnight, Laura had thought it must be someone with a sick animal. It was too late for any other kind of visitor. She’d reached or her veterinary kit, snatching it off the table, before she’d opened the door.

She was waddling now; her ankles swollen and sore, her belly so distended she couldn’t see her feet. Her back cramped, twitching as she pulled the door open and found her own husband there.

“Clint.” 

Her voice was rough, sandpaper. He was looking at her with hopeful eyes, his hand on the sleeve of the young woman’s shirt. 

Laura dropped the kit to the floor. “You’ve brought home a stray,” she observed. 

“This is Nat,” Clint had answered. He half-dragged the young woman into the house by the arm. “Nat, this is Laura.” 

Nat looked up at Laura with big, blue-green eyes like pools, her pupils shrunken to pinpricks, like she’d been looking at something too bright. Her lip was split open; dried blood crusted over her forehead, ran from her nostril down her philtrum. Her hair, long and curly and dark red, was a rat’s nest. She was wearing men's clothing: too big, shapeless, sweat-and-blood-stained. After a moment, Laura recognized them as Clint's own clothes. 

Suddenly, Nat blinked. Her eyes shifted, glanced first left, then right, then settled back on Laura. Her broken mouth spread into a wide smile, and the cut on her lip opened again, dribbling red down her chin. “So pleased to meet you,” she said, her eyes suddenly bright. “Thank you so much for having me. I’d shake your hand, but--” 

She held up a hand-- it was swollen, puffy, bruised. She had at least two broken fingers. 

“Well,” Laura said. “I’ve seen worse.” 

Laura set and splinted the fingers, stitched a few of the worse cuts, and cleaned and bandaged the others, before Clint shuffled Nat off to the guest room with a spare change of his pajamas and a towel and a roll of plastic wrap to cover the bandages, and showed her how to work the finicky faucet in the shower. She’d been among the best patients-- animal or human-- Laura had ever treated. She didn't squirm, didn't budge, staring straight ahead without complaint, while Laura mended her. But there was something eerie about the way she sat, perfectly silent and still, staring ahead, like a statue. 

Clint shut the door, watched it for a moment, like he thought he could see through it. His brow was creased; his cheekbones were hollow, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes.

Laura tugged at the sleeves of her sweater-- Clint’s sweater, really, big and bulky and soft, the cuffs rolling over her hands. “Is it safe to leave her alone?” she asked. 

Clint turned toward her, raised an eyebrow, then rubbed a hand across it, as if he were smoothing it down. “I guess we’ll find out if it’s not,” he replied. 

"Who is she?" Laura asked, tangling herself up in Clint's limbs. She could smell the sweat and dried blood in his clothing, and a sharper odor that she would have preferred to ignore: gunpowder. She sucked it up, tasted the iron and brimstone rolling over her tongue. 

"Refugee," Clint answered, and Laura heard the weariness in his voice. "Russian. Left over from some Cold War agency that shouldn't still exist." 

“What’s--” Laura hesitated, her mouth fumbling over the words, like her tongue couldn’t quite find the right position. “Wrong with her?” 

Clint shook his head as he wrapped her up in his arms-- tightly, protective, and she put her head on his shoulder. “Not my place to say,” he answered. 

He bumped his forehead against hers, and his hands found the orb of her belly, cupping her womb and the nearly-grown baby inside. "Hey, princess," he said, tenderly, his mouth softening, the pads of his fingers warm through her shirt. 

Clint looked up at her, frowning. "I don't feel anything."

"She’s napping," Laura answered. "Thank god." She snatched Clint's hand away from her womb, twisted her fingers between his-- his hands were so callused that the surface of his skin was hard as shell in some places. "She's fine." 

He kissed her, softly, on the nose. "Tell me when she wakes up?"

Laura chuckled. "Believe me," she said. "You'll know."

*****

He was waiting for her, inside, when she picked herself up off the floor. She shook splinters of glass from her hair, the gauze of her veil floating around her head, now torn, a long streamer of tulle caught on the shattered remains of the window. She ignored the pain in her head, tried to blink back the blood streaming into her eyes, down her face, onto the delicate white lace and fake pearls at her neckline.

He aimed his bow at her. 

She laughed. She’d _heard_ about this one, seen the notes about him in _her_ Agent Barton’s file. 

"You're the wrong Agent Barton," she informed him.

He raised an eyebrow. "Sorry, baby doll, but I'm the one you're getting." He took neither the arrow or his eyes off her, but the grim line of his mouth turned up at one corner.

"Bad luck to see the bride on her wedding day," she warned, and she nodded for him to move away from the broken window. She knew someone would have seen her, watched her less-than graceful re-entry to the building. She suspected they had a few minutes, at most. 

"I'm not marrying you," he replied with a shrug. The sharp pinprick of red light from the sight of his bow danced over the tip of her swollen, bloodied nose. 

She stood, perfectly still, except for the twitch of her lips at the taste of her own blood. She was still intact: broken toes, broken fingers, broken glass buried in her forehead. 

"You're not going to shoot," she observed. 

"Look, kid," said the bowman, with an easy shrug. "You know there's only one way we both walk out of here alive." She admired the way he moved, his shoulders arching back, while he still held the arrow perfectly stationary. 

She smiled slyly back at him. "I accept your surrender," she replied. 

“Yeah, no, I was kind of seeing this more as _me_ accepting your surrender,” said Agent Barton. 

"Yes, but you also seem to think I care about _both_ of us," Natasha pointed out. 

"I may not be shooting," he told her, "but you sure as hell haven't made a move."

He tipped the point of his arrow upward ever so slightly, motioning toward the ceiling. "Hands up, kiddo."

There was something in the way he said it: kid, kiddo. No one had treated her like a child since well before she'd even entered adolescence, and here was this man-- the exact sort of man she could normally wrap around her finger with the barest minimum of effort, calling her _kiddo_ in an unaffected tone. It was almost charming, she thought, as she lifted her hands into the air. She did it slowly, watching him with calculating eyes. 

“I want to see your identification,” she told him, nodding at the SHIELD insignia on his uniform. 

“Ident--” He chuckled. “You think I’m an _impersonator_? Or are you just trying to get me to lower my bow?” 

“Are those standard issue?” Natasha asked him, raising her chin, jutting it out in the direction of the bow. 

“Yeah, all the cool kids are using ‘em these days,” he replied. 

“I’m sure they’re very advanced,” Natasha observed. 

“Oh, come _on_ ,” he said, with a plaintive look. “Sure, pick on the guy with the arrows. I’m trying to get you out of here, and this is the thanks I get?” 

“Why?” Natasha asked him. 

“Why what?” 

“Why does SHIELD want me alive? Are they looking for information? Because I--” 

“SHIELD wants you dead,” he told her. “They sent me here to kill you.” 

“Well,” she observed. “You seem to be going about that the wrong way.”

*****

When Nat re-emerged, she was fresh and pink from the hot water, her hair tied up in a towel, Clint’s pajama pant cuffs dragging on the floor. She was pretty, petite, younger than Laura had thought at first-- early twenties, at best. With the blood gone, her injuries didn't seem quite so alarming, though her lower lip was still swollen and purple, and angry red cuts stood out bright against her pale skin.

She seemed calmer now, and she gave Laura a long look before her eyes flicked to Clint. 

"Are they safe?" Nat asked Clint, nodding at Laura-- and, Laura realized, the baby. 

“We’re off the grid,” Clint replied. “So you tell me.” 

Nat blinked at Clint, tipped her head to one side, like a snake or a lizard: a quick, twitchy movement. “I need to go,” she said. “I need a gun, and--” 

“Now, wait just a minute,” said Laura, and she pressed her hand flat against the cool wood of the dining table. “You need rest.” 

“I need to go,” Nat said, mechanically. 

Laura looked from Nat to Clint, raising an eyebrow at her husband, and Clint gave her the tiniest, slightest of nods. 

Nat turned, though, to look at Clint, quizzically, as if she expected him to say something. But he gestured back to Laura. 

“She’s the doctor,” he replied. 

“If you think you’re endangering me by staying,” Laura said, putting a protective hand over her distended belly, “I can take care of myself, and Clint can take care of me better than that.” 

“It’s not that.” Nat raked her teeth over her lower lip, and then winced as they caught at the tear. “There’s something I have to do.” 

“You’re not doing yourself any favors going back out there like that,” Laura told her. “Whatever it is, it can wait.” 

Nat’s face suddenly became very drawn, her lips puckered, her eyes cast toward the floor. “No,” she answered. “No, it can’t.”

There was a frisson in the air, a strange tension that made the back of Laura’s neck feel cold, and the three of them were silent again, looking between each other, waiting to see who would speak next. 

“So,” Nat said, a little more firmly, though her voice was rough, dry. “I need a gun.”

*****

Natasha didn’t have time to make a decision; they’d run out their time already, and she knew it, half-suspecting that that had been the bowman’s tactic, to stall until his backup arrived.

But it wasn’t his backup that came through; no, their standoff was interrupted by a whisper-soft sound that would have seemed all too innocuous to a passerby, but made Natasha spin-- and she saw the bowman tip his head up, alert, re-aim his bow in a split second. 

“Get down!” he shouted, even as Natasha caught the barest movement reflected in a snatch of broken glass on the floor and flattened, the voluminous skirts of the wedding dress catching with air and puffing up around her like a balloon. 

He let loose a shot. The whistle of the arrow was sharp; it hissed as it cut the air above her head, and then there was a concrete _thud_ as it hit his target. 

“That won’t be all--” Natasha began, pushing herself up on her elbows as a volley of fire erupted around them. She rolled, tangled in the white satin of the dress, behind the bowman, cursing her lack of a weapon for the dozenth time that hour. 

He worked the room in an arc, landing shot after shot. It was almost balletic, the way he worked: the smooth, unbroken motion as his hand went to his quiver, selected an arrow, nocked it and drew back the bowstring, let loose, and began the motion again. 

“I need a gun,” she called to him. She tugged at the wedding dress, ripping the skirt at her thigh, and kicked the extra layers of satin and chiffon to the side. 

“That’s a funny joke,” he called back. 

“I’m unarmed,” she said. She mapped out the distance to the nearest of their fallen assailants in her mind. They were too vulnerable here, in a loft space where they sat within easy reach on an open floor. 

“If you are who I think you are, you’re _never_ unarmed,” he said. 

“As true as that may be,” she said. “I’d prefer shooting to hand-to-hand combat in the current situation.” 

“I give you a gun, are you going to shoot me in the back?” 

Natasha coughed, loudly. “Is this _really_ time to quibble?” 

He let off a shot, and reached for his thigh holster. “Here,” he said, tossing her an ancient service revolver.

“Are all your weapons Medieval?” she asked. 

He flashed her a grin as he aimed another arrow. “Nah, some of them are prehistoric.”

*****

Clint put an arm around Nat’s shoulders, leaned in toward her conspiratorially, the way Laura had seen him do before, when he showed up with runaways, out-of-towners with a broken down truck, stray dogs, whatever out-of-luck creatures he brought to the door.

“Come on, Nat,” he said, coaxing her back toward the spare bedroom. “I’ll see what we can do.” 

Laura let out a breath as Nat slid her feet reluctantly across the floor. Clint wouldn’t let her go back to wherever she wanted to go, not like that, not somewhere she needed a gun. 

They were gone too long. After a minute or two of waiting, Laura got up and put the kettle on. 

It whistled before they returned. She poured three large mugs of boiling water, put a dollop of honey and a tea bag in each, carried them back to the table and arranged them at one end. 

The steam floated into the air, smelling of herbs and honey, calming and familiar. 

She went to the pantry, opened a box of shortbread, arranged the little round cookies on a blue plate, and, as her legs began to cramp, wondered if she should check on them. 

She waddled back to the table, placed the shortbread in the center, and took a deep breath. 

“Clint!” she called. “Clint, your tea’s getting cold.” 

“One minute!” Clint called back. 

Laura started without them, breaking a circle of shortbread with a satisfying snap. She lowered it into the tea, stirring with it until the biscuit turned soggy, and then pulled it out, carefully, so it didn’t break off into the hot liquid, and stuffed it into her mouth, where the tea-soaked buttery crumbs dissolved almost instantly. 

The door to the spare room opened. Nat walked out first, slouching slightly, eyes shifting back and forth across the room. 

“There’s tea,” Laura said, pointing to the mug on her right. “I didn’t know how you take it, so there’s just honey.” 

Nat looked up, looked at Laura, and her lower lip fell, just slightly, her eyes wide and full of wonder in a way that seemed misplaced given the mundanity of a cup of tea. 

“Honey’s-- honey’s fine,” Nat said, and she made her way to the table, slowly, almost skittishly, and looked at Laura as she reached a hand out for the tea, then hesitated. 

“We settled it,” Clint said, as he dropped onto the bench on Laura’s left, catching up her hand in his, his thumb worrying at her wedding band. “Nat’s going to stay till she’s healed up.” 

“Go ahead,” Laura said. “You can sit.” 

Nat sat, and ran her hands over the flannel pajama pants that covered her thighs, before she reached for the tea. She hunched over the cup, sipped it with a slurp, watching both Clint and Laura with a cautious expression, like a frightened animal. 

“Thank you,” Nat said. She pulled her feet both up into the chair, until she was sitting in fetal position, and curled around the tea, like it was the only thing in the world. 

“Are you two gonna be okay?” Clint asked. “If I leave you alone?” He nodded down at his chest-- he’d changed his shirt, but he was still soaked in sweat and smeared with blood. “I need to take a shower _sometime_.” 

“Are we?” Laura asked. 

Nat looked up at both of them, and then smiled . Laura hadn’t known what she was expecting-- but her smile was impish, a little sardonic, and she rolled her eyes at Clint in a way that seemed comfortable. “The martians are planning to invade the second you leave the room, Barton,” she said. 

And, just like that, the tension dissipated. All-- well, no, not all-- but _most_ , certainly-- of it rolled out of the room like fog in hot sun, and Clint chuckled as he pushed himself up from his seat. “Behave,” he admonished. “See you on the flipside.” 

“The _flipside_?” Laura asked. “It’s a shower.” 

Clint grinned, lopsided and easy. “It’s a very _dramatic_ shower.”

*****

“Head down,” said Barton, and he pressed his hand-- rough, clammy-- to the back of Natasha’s neck. She dropped her head like a rag doll.

She felt her way around the cuffs he’d slapped around her wrists; she could easily slip them if she had to. Worst came to worst, she could strangle him with the chain that connected the narrow steel bands to her wrists. 

“You got a name, kid?” asked the archer.

“You know my name,” Natasha answered. 

“I know your call sign, Widow,” he answered. “Something tells me your parents didn’t christen you ‘Black.’” 

“It’s good enough for government work, isn’t it, Agent Barton?” Natasha replied. “You know my name. You’ve got a whole big file on me, don’t you? Stretches back to the Bolsheviks.” 

“ _Natalia_ ,” said Barton. “Kind of a mouthful, though, for a little kid like you.”

She snorted. “I’m so impressed.”

“Look, kid,” said Barton, as he shouldered his bow and drew a small service revolver, keeping his hand on the nape of her neck. “It’s not like you’ve been escaping our notice.” 

He drew in a deep breath. “Now,” he said. “I’m gonna call this in. There’s going to be SHIELD agents everywhere.”

“There are already SHIELD agents everywhere. I’m the one who told you where to find me in the first place.” 

“So what you’re saying is, you’re either dumber than your file suggests, or you’ve got a death wish.” Barton sighed. “You do what I tell you, I promise you won’t get hurt.” 

She couldn’t see his face. “I’ve heard that before, smart guy.” 

“This is Barton,” Barton said, and the tone of his voice had changed; his words were no longer directed at her. “I’ve got the target in custody.”

There was a pause. 

“No,” he said. “Alive.”

Another pause. 

“I know what my orders were. One of them was to use my discretion.” 

And a third pause. 

“Yeah,” Barton said. “So I used my discretion. Are you sending in a team or not? We’re being pursued.” 

Barton cleared his throat. “Kid?” he asked, raising his voice a notch. “You have a description of your pursuers for my team?” 

“Seven,” replied Natasha. “Three women, four men. All fully armed. Men in suits and women in pink-- no, _fuschia_ dresses.” 

“Fantastic,” Barton muttered. “I love weddings.” 

Barton relayed the information into the phone, and then grabbed Natasha by the shoulder. “The minute SHIELD shows their faces, we run. They’ll provide cover. I keep a gun pointed at the back of your head; SHIELD won’t shoot you.” 

“And then?” Natasha asked. 

“And then we ditch our escort,” said Barton. “I know a safehouse.” 

As they cleared the building, made their way past the front courtyard, Natasha pressed the detonator still hidden in her lingerie. 

Behind them, the building went up in flames.

*****

“What did he tell you?” Nat asked. She stirred her tea with her finger, not touching the shortbread.

“That you’re a refugee,” Laura answered. She took another piece of shortbread for herself. If their guest wasn’t going to eat it, she might as well. “Russian. Some kind of government agent. And you don’t sound Russian, I’m guessing you’re a spy.” 

Nat smiled a slow, thin-lipped smile, and sipped her tea, cradling the cup with both hands. “Good guess,” she replied. “Is that all?” 

“He told me I had to ask you if I wanted to know the rest,” Laura told her. 

Nat's eyes flicked up, scanning Laura's face as if Laura were a page from a book, as if Natasha were reading her, analyzing her. 

"I'm a professional liar," Nat replied. "Did he tell you that?"

"No," Laura said. She reached for another cookie. "But seeing as you're not being compensated for this visit, I'm hardly worried."

A tiny smile flickered across Nat's face, faint and brief, like a ghost. "What do you want to know?"

"Why are you here?" Laura asked, carefully. She left the question open-ended, easy to interpret however Nat liked. 

"Because your husband was sent to kill me," Nat answered. 

Laura shivered. She knew; she’d known when Clint had gotten the call, that there was really a limited number of ways that could go. She’d known who he was after. She was all too aware of what his job entailed. She'd been there through security clearances and therapy sessions, the bouts of post-traumatic stress disorder, and the crises of conscience that came with the reality of being an agent of death. But here-- here was this _girl_ , barely more than college-age, sitting in front of her, saying that Clint had been meant to kill her, and suddenly her unease was palpable. It was in her house; it was too real. 

Her discomfort must have been obvious, because Nat uncoiled and patted Laura's hand. Her touch was hesitant, feather-light, as if she wasn't used to human contact. She reached across the table and took a piece of shortbread. She inspected it quizzically, then licked the bottom of it. "I'd say he's not very good at his job, but I think he's better at it than he seems."

“He likes to take care of things,” Laura explained. “Broken things, hurt things, lost things. I’d say you seem to qualify.” 

“You both do, don’t you?” Nat asked. “You fix broken things. That’s why you found each other.” 

“I’m _good at it_ ,” Laura explained. “It’s my job. It’s a little different.” 

Nat’s eyes moved over Laura’s belly, lingering there. It was a look Laura was used to by now. “You’re having a baby,” she observed. Nat bit into the shortbread, frowned as she chewed it, then swallowed. 

Laura laughed. “Well, one would hope,” she answered. “I already have eight chickens, I don’t need any more of those.” 

It took a moment for Nat to laugh, a split second where she frowned, as if she wasn’t quite sure whether it was a joke. “Is it a boy or a girl?” she asked. “Do you know?” 

“Girl,” Laura replied, patting her belly. 

“Girls are good,” Nat said. She nodded, a slight smile playing on her lips, approving. “Useful.” 

“And boys aren’t?” Laura asked. “Where are you from? Usually when you hear that opinion, it’s the other way around.” 

Nat bit her lip, smoothed her hand over her own flat middle. “My...school,” she explained. “Trains girls. To do what I do.”

Her eyes flicked around the room, then back to Laura. “I think you’ll be good at it,” she said. “Raising children.” 

There was something in the way she said it: calculating, thoughtful. It made Laura feel as if she were being assessed, right there, that Nat had compiled all of her observations and come to an objective conclusion, that it wasn’t just a pleasantry, the sort of thing she was saying to be polite. 

“I--” Laura began, but she was interrupted by a loud noise outside: a thump, and then audible squawking from the direction of the chicken coop. Nat and Laura both started from their seats. 

“I’ll go,” Nat said. “If it’s dangerous-- if-- they could be looking for me.” Nat glanced around the room, then armed herself with a butter knife and an empty mug. “You have the baby.” 

“It’s probably just a wild animal,” Laura insisted. “Trying to get into the henhouse. Clint wouldn’t have brought you here if it wasn’t safe.” 

Nat gave Laura a cautious look, and started for the door. Laura watched her, the way she was suddenly alert, stalking like a predatory animal, light on her feet. Her eyes were fierce and bright, and if Laura hadn’t known she was injured, she would never have guessed.

*****

Way out, away from civilization, people expect the night to be quiet, but it was anything but. Grackles were squawking at each other; insects were chirping. The wind howled through the trees that lined the perimeter of the property. Natasha smelled grass, earth, wood, the pungent odor of manure wafting toward her from the field.

She skipped the lower stair of the porch stoop-- it had creaked when Barton had led her to the house; she didn’t trust it. 

She walked to the henhouse, across open, flat terrain, confident that if anyone wanted to attack her, they would try it while she was vulnerable and exposed, but nothing happened, and she reached the chicken coop without event. It was up on stilts, the wooden door shuttered and latched for the night. It didn’t appear as if anything had been disturbed. 

The door to the house snapped shut behind her. She whirled. 

Barton was standing on the porch, dripping wet, a towel wrapped around his waist, his bow in one hand, his quiver in the other. “Natasha?” he called, across the yard. 

She relaxed, let her heart rate slow. “We heard something,” she said. “The chickens were distressed.” 

“I know,” Barton answered. He side-stepped down the front stoop, not skipping over the squeaky stair, and made his way over to her, bare feet crunching in the grass. 

“Are you sure you should be--” Natasha asked, but Barton had turned his back to her, was surveying the landscape. 

“You motherfucker!” he shouted. “You can come out now!” 

Natasha had never met the man who emerged from the shadows, but she recognized him on sight. He was tall, dark-skinned, bald, and he would have cut an imposing figure even if he weren’t dressed all in black, but the tails of his long leather coat swirling in the wind made him seem like some kind of supernatural creature. He peered at them from one eye-- the other covered with a black eyepatch. 

“Director.” Clint sidled over, putting himself and his towel between Natasha and the man who approached. 

Fury. His name was Fury, and by all accounts, he lived up to the name. Natasha’s hand clasped her knife a little more tightly. 

“That was not,” Fury said, as he walked forward, “how I was expecting that mission to go. Hello, Agent Romanoff.” 

Natasha blinked up at him. “Good evening,” she said. She kept her mug up and out, brandishing it, in case she needed to smack him. 

“You knew exactly how that mission was going to go,” Barton answered. “I told you how it was going to go when you gave me the assignment. Sir, this is Nat,” he said. “Nat, meet Colonel Nick Fury.” 

“Are you the one who put out the kill order?” Natasha asked. 

“The same,” said Fury. “Wouldn’t need to do that if you weren’t trying to murder our agents.” 

“That wasn’t me,” said Natasha. She started to cock her head, to smile coyly at him, started to hold out a hand, and then she realized she didn’t _have_ to. She didn’t have to fool him, she didn’t have to keep her cover. She didn’t have to make him like her. 

She slipped both of her hands behind her back. “Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand.” 

And Fury _smiled_ , that hard, impassive face smiled at her, sincerely, without a whiff of condescension. “Can’t fault you for the sentiment,” he agreed. 

“You’d better have a damn good reason for disregarding our agreement,” said Barton. He squared his shoulders and stepped forward, making himself into a barrier between Fury and Natasha.

“I wanted to see if you had a damn good reason for disregarding orders,” Fury answered. 

“Her own _people_ were trying to kill her,” Barton answered. “She’s not the one we want.” 

Natasha swallowed. “There’s another Black Widow,” she found herself saying, before she’d made up her mind. “I can give you intel. You can shut the entire project down, for all I care.” 

Fury frowned at her. “You’ve singlehandedly killed twenty-six of my agents,” he said.

“She’s also turned over twenty-seven kids,” Clint pointed out. 

“Is that true?” Fury asked “Was that you? Why the change of heart?” 

Natasha pressed her lips together. “The Red Room,” she replied. “They’re abusing children.” 

Fury’s eye met hers, but his expression was inscrutable. Finally, he looked to Barton. “You know there’s going to have to be a disciplinary hearing.” 

Barton grinned, broadly. “Wouldn’t be my first or my last.”

Fury sighed. “Leave the banjo at home this time, will you?” 

When Fury departed, Natasha was left with a cold, uneasy feeling. He hadn’t tried to arrest her, hadn’t tried to question her, even when she’d offered information. Her mind, her suspicions, went in a thousand different directions. She’d spoken the truth, but he couldn’t be so naive as to believe her. She wondered if he was playing some kind of long game-- she’d read his file; she knew that was his specialty. 

It couldn’t be _that_ easy. 

“I need to leave,” she told Barton. “I can’t stay here.” 

Barton raised an eyebrow. “We already talked about this, Nat. This is the safest place you can be.” 

She shook her head. “If he found us, then they can find us. You-- your wife-- your _baby_ \-- Give me a gun and I’ll be out of your hair.” 

Barton waved away her concern, literally, flicking at the air. “Fury’s already got the address. No one else does. You’re busted up, just...stay a week, okay? Stay till you’re mostly healed.” 

She didn’t agree, not out loud, but nodded, tiredly. “I could use some sleep,” she admitted. 

“Good,” Barton said. “You can have that guest room, the one you showered in.” 

Natasha nodded again, and yawned. 

She said goodnight to Laura, told them both that she tended to wake on the early side, and asked where they kept the coffee, before she headed to her room, crept into bed, and waited until she heard footsteps on the staircase.

*****

The baby decided that three in the morning was the perfect time to wake up and practice her kicks.

Laura’s legs were cramping up, on top of that, and _everything_ felt swollen and sore. She tried to shift to her other side, turning to face Clint, and hoping she wouldn’t wake him as the mattress creaked beneath her. 

But he was gone, an indentation in his pillow, the sheets turned down and twisted over his side of the bed. 

Laura froze for a moment, and her heart began to beat faster. 

She swore under her breath, put a hand to her chest. “Slow,” she chided. “ _Slow down_.” 

“Clint?!” She called, trying not to shout too loudly, trying not to sound worried. He had to have gotten up for a glass of water, or to use the bathroom, or-- 

“Clint?” she called again. She sat up on her haunches, wincing at the pain in her back, and lowered her hand over her belly. 

She heard footsteps in the hall-- barefoot, but falling heavily, and she relaxed; Clint’s gait was unmistakeable to her by now. 

His face appeared in the doorway, pale in the sliver of moonlight that lit their bedroom. “She’s gone,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. 

Laura wasn’t surprised by the news. She chewed the inside of her lip, and then nodded. “How many guns did she take?”

“Two,” Clint replied. “And a fucking big knife.” He made his way over to the bed, and sat back down on the edge of the mattress, rubbing his forehead with his hand. “Am I an idiot?” 

“Strays don’t stay unless you lock them in,” Laura pointed out. She reached for his back, kneading his shoulder with her knuckles, and then laughed. 

“What?” Clint asked. 

“I thought giving you a back rub would make mine stop hurting,” she admitted. 

Clint sighed and reached out a hand. “Turn around,” he said, gesturing with his fingers in a circle. 

She turned away from him, and he pressed his fingertips into her shoulderblades. 

“She was afraid,” Clint said. “She _said_ she needed to go. I don’t know why I--” 

Laura rolled her shoulders back into his hands, scrunching her face up at the ache where he worked at the knots in her back. “You couldn’t have made her stay,” she said. “If she wants to come back, she’ll come back.”

“Somebody’s gonna kill her before then,” Clint said, and he let out a huff. “I keep thinking, maybe...hell, if Fury doesn’t want me working...I could track her. I could go after her, make sure--” 

Laura wriggled away from him, and turned, raising an eyebrow at him, skeptical. “What happens when you chase a stray, Clint?” she asked.

He heaved his shoulders. “They run further into the woods,” he mumbled. 

She smiled, then, and put her hands on his shoulders. “Come on,” she said. “Did you let SHIELD know she’s gone?” 

“Yeah,” Clint said. “I asked them very nicely not to kill her and everything.” 

“Good,” said Laura. She kissed his cheek, rubbed at her own eyes, and pointed to his pillow. 

Clint obeyed, lying back down, rubbing his hands over his face. “She took forty dollars,” he said. “There were three hundred in the stash inside the old clock. Three hundred. She took _forty_.”

*****

The farm was cold the night Natasha returned. She sank deeper into her coat, the one she’d bought at a thrift store with part of the money she’d taken from the Bartons. It had been a lucky find: synthetic down, soft quilting, a roomy hood. It had been lime green, but it hadn’t taken too much effort to dye it black.

There were lights on in the main room of the house, but she didn’t dare get close enough that they would notice the motion. She crept toward the porch, avoiding the squeaky first step. 

She put the guns on the doormat, with forty dollars and a short note in an envelope. 

She caught a glimpse of shadows moving inside. That was Laura, standing at the end of the table, pouring something from a pot-- tea, or coffee, maybe. She was slimmer now, she walked more briskly. 

And there was Barton, one arm tucked against his chest, holding a bundle not much larger than a football. 

Natasha bit her lip. 

She didn’t hang around. She walked off the property, a good half-mile, to where she’d parked her stolen car. She got in, started the engine, flipped the radio dial until she found something she liked: an oldies station, playing rock from the nineteen-seventies. She didn’t know the name of the musician, but it was catchy, bubblegummy, with saccharine lyrics and kept to a major key. 

She waited until she was on the road before she picked up her phone, dialed a number. 

The phone rang twice before it picked up.

“This is Barton,” said the other Agent Barton.

“Agent Barton?” Natasha asked. "FBI?"

The other Agent Barton was silent for a long moment. 

“Agent Romanoff?” he replied. 

“It’s been awhile,” Natasha said, cheerfully, as if she were making small talk with an old friend. 

The other Agent Barton snorted into the phone. “To be honest,” he admitted. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.” 

“Well,” Natasha replied. “I think your brother is going to have his hands full for a while, so I’d rather bother you.”

She pressed her lips together, took a deep breath. “How do I turn myself in?”

*****

Something beeped. It was a soft beep, the beep of an appliance or an alarm, muted, but Laura wasn’t sure where it was coming from.

“What was that?” She asked. 

“Huh?” replied Clint, who was putting a sleeping Lila down in her carrier. 

It beeped again.

“That,” said Laura. She turned in a circle, trying to suss out the source of the sound. 

There was a third beep. 

“What--I have no idea,” Clint replied. 

The beeps came in faster succession, and Clint frowned at the door. “It sounds like it’s outside,” he said, and groaned. 

Laura went to the door, peered outside. There was no one there, but the beeping was definitely getting louder and more frequent as she approached. 

“Get back,” Clint said, suddenly tense, pushing his own way in front of her. “Get Lila; get to the _basement_.” 

The beeping was getting faster; Clint grabbed a pair of kitchen scissors from a drawer. 

Laura pulled Lila’s carrier up onto one arm and lugged it toward the basement steps. 

She was halfway down the staircase when she heard a muffled shout from Clint.

“La?!” he called. 

She let out a long, slow sigh of relief and started, unsteadily, back up the stairs. 

When she got back into the main room, Clint was frowning at an envelope. Two guns were sitting on the table: two very familiar guns, the same ones that had gone missing months ago, now. 

“Is she back?” Laura asked.

“No,” Clint replied. He turned the envelope over in his hands. “There was a watch. With an alarm set.”

Laura put Lila down, moving cautiously to where Clint stood, peering over his shoulder at the envelope, at the neat, quaint cursive writing on it. 

Clint opened the envelope with the same pair of kitchen shears he’d picked up when he thought he was going to have to defuse a bomb. 

He frowned, squinting at the letter, and then jerked back from the paper, a concerned look on his face, his brow furrowed deeply. 

“Just a second,” he said, and he tossed the paper aside, starting out into the yard. 

“Clint?” Laura asked, but he was off like a shot, jogging toward the fenced in area where they kept the chickens. 

“Clint!” she called again. She looked back at Lila, sitting quietly in her seat-- if there was a threat, if someone was there, she couldn’t leave the baby alone. 

She sighed and picked Lila up again. Lila fussed as Laura tucked her up in her arms and trudged after Clint, who was well across the yard by now. 

“Clint, what’s--” 

Lila howled. Laura rocked her slowly and shielded her ears, offering her a finger to grab at, but Lila seemed more interested in screaming. 

The chickens were in their coop for the night, and everything was quiet-- there was no sign of trespassers, no sign of a wild animal. The fence was all intact; the door to the coop was firmly latched. Clint dropped down to one knee and unfastened the latch on the door. 

Lila yowled again, and then there was another noise, from inside the henhouse-- a distinctively un-avian sound, something that sounded almost like human speech-- 

“Okay,” Clint said. “Hey-- hey, I’ve got you, it’s okay.” 

Laura’s view was obscured by the open door of the henhouse, but the next thing she heard was definitely human speech-- but if it was a language, it was one she didn’t know. It was soft, and high-pitched, and--

Clint spoke back, again in a language she didn’t understand-- but now, in Clint’s familiar, deeper voice, she recognized it as Russian. 

And then he picked up a child-- a toddler, really, with a mop of dark curls falling into blue eyes. 

Clint exchanged a few words with the child, patiently and softly, nodding in Laura’s and Lila’s direction. 

Lila was still crying, though she seemed to have tired herself out a bit, and downgraded from screaming to fussing, and this time, when Laura gave her a finger, the baby put it into her mouth. 

Clint looked over at her, a pained expression on his face. “La?” he asked. “I think we have another stray.” 

Laura took a deep breath, shivering, and looked from the toddler-- who was knobby-kneed, underfed, and badly in need of a bath-- and then up to Clint.

“What does Lila think?” Clint asked.

Lila gummed Laura’s finger. “Lila thinks she’s hungry.” 

They locked eyes for a long moment, and Clint flashed her a lopsided grin that made the tension melt from her shoulders, and then Clint said something else to the child, in Russian, and the child smiled and responded. 

“Hello,” Clint said, and then repeated it, very slowly. “Hel-lo.” 

The child looked at Laura and put a hand up, splaying out five stubby pink fingers. “Hello.” 

“Yes,” Clint replied, his eyes twinkling, quite pleased. “Da.” 

Laura grinned in spite of herself. “Hello.”


End file.
